


you and the moon and neptune got it right

by mwildsides



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dragon Age Kink Meme, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why do you want to help me?" The elf asks softly, the question full of wonder. Dorian shrugs</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and the moon and neptune got it right

**Author's Note:**

> sssso a lot of things 1) this is for a prompt on the kink meme that i can't find, 2) this is my first time writing DA fic, 3)this is my first time publishing after a really really long time and a sorta difficult time so. go easy on me i guess. 4)this is my IQ but he's not a mage, that was for the prompt. that's all i can think of ok bye. also this is my bae http://the-ironbae.tumblr.com/post/119423993973

Most elves make their escape during one of their masters' lavish celebrations. It's easy, because everyone in attendance is focused on one another, and the wine they pass around, so come morning, when their slaves are far and gone from Minrathos, they are too wine-sick and angry to care much. The only downside is that this has happened so many times, the guards are hyper-alert. Nearly a dozen elves have been caught, and more escaped. The punishments always differed, from losing a hand or a tongue, to a public lashing, and if it were an especially violent case, beheading.

Leitos decides to take his chances anyway.

House Amladaris is celebrating their eldest son's 18th name-day, and no expense is spared in the preparation. With the other household slaves, Leitos sets up the dinner couches and refreshment tables in the hall, helps hang the cloth-of-gold draperies and all the other ridiculous decorations Lady Nemia had bought a month in advance. The other slaves, men and women of the People he had come to see as companions know nothing of his pending escape, to hopefully spare them some pain in the days following his absence. He feels guilty for not including them, not offering them a route to freedom, but reaching his family to make arrangements had been risky enough on its own.

It is a simple thing to excuse himself to find another jug of wine and never return. The halls of the great estate are predictably empty, save for a straggling slave, and so the only difficulty will be the guards near the entrance. Leitos had always been well-treated under House Amladaris, he never wanted for very basic amenities, and his Lady always liked him well dressed, which gave him plenty of material to work into a traveling cloak--most importantly, with a hood. When a description goes out for him the next day, it will include his June markings, so it is prudent to hide them as he flees.

Having very few personal affects helps too. All he has--a few figurines he had whittled of his mother and father, six bits of stolen gold and silver to barter with--is kept in a little doeskin pouch at his waist. The most conspicuous thing is his staff. He had worked on it for most of his time here, in secret; it is a thing worked out of dry white-wood, simply carved at the top and able to be broken down into two parts, for discretion. It is his protection, and his vulnerability.

As he rounds a corner that will lead him down into the vestibule, he pulls up short when he sees two guards making their way toward him. Before he can turn back, they call for him to stop. If he runs, they will give chase, and do who knows what if the catch him. Better to talk his way out of it, he thinks.

Pushing back his hood, Leitos smiles at the guards, inclining his head in greeting.

"What are you doing?" One of them snaps, immediately.

"Master Irian sent me for more mead, our stores were apparently ins-" The second guard waves a hand dismissively.

"Bollocks, Lady Nemia had everything stocked weeks ago," he says, stepping toward Leitos, and he's much bigger than the elf, even if there's a blade in his boot. "Off to some clandestine meeting, perhaps? Or simply looking for an out, little elf?"

"Looks as if he's ready to set out somewhere," the first says, as the second, the huge one, advances on him until the elf's back is pressed up against the cool stone wall. That makes him flinch, and the guards laugh.

Without a word, the big one pushes his elbow against Leitos' neck, forcing his chin up as the guard starts to paw at his torso. Searching him, and with his staff knocked aside, the elf panics just a bit. The first man moves in close to watch his friend, arms crossed over his chest, and when Leitos yelps a little when a hand comes in contact with his crotch, they both laugh.

"Darling I've br - oh, dear."

A third figure slinks out of the darkness of the hallway whence Leitos had come.

"Gentlemen," the man says, though he is clearly not a guard. Young and handsome, finely dressed. A nobleman. "Unhand him, if you would."

The one bracing Leitos against the wall spits at the new stranger. "What's it to you, Pavus?"

Smiling lopsidedly the nobleman raises a clay jar of wine. "You were the one who said something about clandestine meetings."

So this man, Pavus, had seen, or at very least heard, the whole ordeal.

Both guards back away a little, and Leitos sucks in a greedy breath as he gathers his cloak about him as if it would provide some sort of defense. Pavus extends an arm to him, and though the elf is unsure how playing along will affect his plans, he moves to the man's side, snatching up his staff on the way. The nobleman puts an arm about his waist, pulls their bodies close. He smells of wine and a heady mix of scented oils.

"Are you alright, my dear?" He asks, sincere concern showing in the grey of his eyes. For a moment, Leitos nearly believes the farce.

"I am," he replies in a tiny voice.

"Well then. You'd do well to forget you saw him, wouldn't you? And I'll forget I saw you groping one of the Magister's slaves."

The guards grumble, and stomp off down the hall. Pavus releases him, and the act is dropped. Leitos moves from him as if pushed, and adjusts his clothes as the nobleman watches, a shoulder leaned against the wall.

"You are escaping, yes?" He asks. "I'd almost feel slighted putting on like that, if you weren't."

As if a thousand other emotions weren't running rampant inside his head, anger wells in Leitos' stomach like a sickness.

"Creators forbid you feel put out," the elf snaps.

"The mouth on you," Pavus murmurs as he pushes away from the wall. Leitos takes a step back. "Oh please, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Then what," Leitos says, narrowing his eyes at the nobleman, "are you going to do? Because I must be going."

"Mmm, go with you, I suppose," he muses. He's drunk, clearly. "See you safe from here, at least."

And that, well that nearly knocks the breath out of Leitos. A Tevinter nobleman help him escape? It couldn't be true - ah yes.

"See me to the gallows you mean. I think not." Again, the elf pulls his hood over his head and face, then goes to leave, but by a different route this time.

"No, wait," the man growls, and darts out to take Leitos' wrist. "I'm a guest of Varian in there, no one would stop me from leaving, especially not with a creature lovely as you are." His smile turns a little mischievous, smoldering. But he is sincere. "Dorian, of House Pavus," he adds as introduction.

For what feels like an eternity, Leitos looks his face over, as if he could see through to the man's deception. He couldn't, however, and instead just inspected his terribly handsome face. This Dorian was beautiful, hard carved face clean-shaven, clear skin similar to Leitos' own shade of warm brown. Like honey, someone had told him once.

"Why do you want to help me?" The elf asks softly, the question full of wonder. Dorian shrugs with an exaggerated motion.

"Why not? My family owns slaves, and I detest it, but what do I do about it? I cannot legally set them free, and even then some of them don't want to be free." He makes a confused face at that, and of course he wouldn't even begin to understand why slaves preferred that life. "And here you are, an opportunity. I can get you to the harbor."

"I go by the catacombs."

There is a brief pause, silent save for the flame in its sconce on the wall.

"Well then, by the catacombs."

-

The streets of Minrathous are a testament to the city's--to Tevinter's old glory, though it's all under crumbling buildings and the ramshackle shelters of refugees fleeing the war with the Qunari. Leitos has no love for the place, but one can tell it used to be a lovely city to live in. If you weren't a slave, he supposed. It may have been worse for them back then, and any dreams he had of a better time here vanish.

With Dorian deftly leading the way, they wind through the streets, and while Leitos was determined to stay quiet, the only son of Magister Halward of House Pavus seems keen on bantering his way through this flight. He is charming, though, the elf had to give him that.

Near the inner walls of the city, the late patrol of guards are their way to their stations for the evening. Only then does Dorian finally shut up, pulling Leitos into the space between two hovels and tugging the elf close as the clamor of armor laden men draws close to them.

"I'm going to kiss you now," the man says, and though it is dark Leitos can see the little smirk on his face.

" _What?_ " He hisses in disbelief, but his answer is the surprisingly gentle press of lips and tongue. Dorian tastes of sweet wine, and is clearly very...practiced. The kiss is a brief thing, and once the guard passes Dorian breaks away to check if they were well and gone, before taking off on their path again. Leitos has to be dragged along behind the man for a few moments, so shocked is he.

From there however, they encounter no other obstacles on their way to the Catacombs. There was once a great entrance to them, guilder doors of iron and wood and precious stone, but those had been looted and carried off in pieces. In their place stands simple wrought iron, rusting and unlocked.

"Have you been through these before?" Dorian asks, his breath coming a little heavy from their brisk jog through the city. Leitos breathes deep to calm his, and shakes his head. "Then down I go."

It takes some doing to open the gates, but between the two of them, no magic is necessary. The stairway that twists down is pitch black, a pit that yawns before them.

"Do you know how to use that?" Dorian indicates Leitos' staff. The elf glares.

"I made it," he replies bitterly, and punctuates his statement by stamping its butt against the stone, flame flaring then wavering serenely at its top. With a conceding nod, Dorian holds out a hand for him to descend.

**  
**  


It is a terribly long walk through the catacombs. The air is close and damp, and often the halls that twist under the sea are tiny, smelling thickly of salt. It makes Leitos nervous to be in such small spaces, even his stomach turns when the stone closes in. More than once he asks to stop, having to close his eyes and slow his breathing to calm his nerves, and each time Dorian gives him a few sips of wine.

"Nearly there," he murmurs, seeing the distress on the elf's face.

"Are we?" Leitos knows his expression is rather pathetic, but he smiles anyhow. Dorian nods, looking off down the hall ahead of them, as if he could see. "You know your way around here well."

"More than once I've... Had need of the catacombs," he tells the elf with a smile that is edged by bitterness. There's something sad about the young man, though everything that comes out of his mouth is a sarcastic and often followed by a smirk. Leitos senses it on him, but makes no comment.

**  
**  


By the time they make it to the surface, on the other side now of Minrathous and the ocean that surrounds it, it is the darkest part of the night, yet still lighter than the catacombs had been. Leitos extinguishes the flame of his staff as Dorian heaves the heavy wooden door up and open. He lets the elf climb out first, and then follows, leaving the cellar-like door ajar behind him. Not yards away, a few mounted figures lead another horse toward them, and excitement lights up in Leitos' belly.

"You're free, little elf," Dorian says behind him, and Leitos turns on his heel.

"Because of you," he breathes, and he truly cannot conjure any words, too overcome by the prospect of home and family to properly thank this man. "I owe you my life."

Before Dorian can reply, Leitos throws himself on the man, wrapping him in a tight embrace. He feels the bend of Dorian's cheek against his own as he smiles.

And Leitos weeps.

It's a lot to take in at once.

"Leitos!" Someone calls behind him, close and breathless with excitement. A distantly familiar voice from his memories. The elf lets Dorian go and turns to see his sister, Leita. Their mother carried them together, brought them into this world together, and now they could be with each other once more.

He embraces his sister briefly, tears still hot upon his cheeks, but she parts from him quickly.

"We must go," she whispers, as if they could be caught even here. Then she looks at Dorian over Leitos' shoulder. "He has seen your face."

"He helped me. He - he stopped the guards," Leitos explains as he pushes his dirty hands across his cheeks, "I would not be here without his aide."

"Very well then," Leita nods, and then bends at the waist. "For delivering my brother to me, I am eternally grateful."

Dorian scoffs. "I did nothing."

Leitos returns to him, almost grieved to hear him say that.

"You've given me my life back. Nothing I could offer or say will ever repay that," he says, grinning now. "I wish you a long and happy life, Dorian, of House Pavus."

Leaning in, Leitos presses a kiss to the man's forehead, then turns to go.

**  
**  
  


-

**  
**  
  


Leaving behind the luxuries of home grieves Dorian right about now. Two days on horseback, one night spent sleeping under the sky, which had irrevocably chilled him to the bone, has been more than enough. When he reaches the next village, he will pay whomever necessary to kill all the geese and their goslings so he could have a decent night’s sleep. Such is the price for leaving behind the life of an Altus, he supposes.

Still, the punishment of Ferelden's cold seems a bit much. It reaches him no matter how much he puts on. What he really needs is a hot bath, that would be worth not only his purse, but this damn horse and all he carries. He has to be close to a village that could have even the most meager amenities, which he would take whole-heartedly, just Maker get me there I was not made for this life.

He reminds himself that this was nothing compared to the Frostbacks; he could have taken that route, and much faster it would have been, but the cold would have been even more hideous. Instead he landed at Jader after crossing the Waking Sea, and now made his way along the Imperial Highway to Redcliffe.

The path he travels now, however, is picturesque. To his left, Lake Calenhad stretches out blue and glittering, and to his right, over the trees the Frostbacks rise in the distance, so at very least it isn't as ugly as the Silent Plains. That was a journey he'd never care to make again.

And while he had been traveling alone for his time in Ferelden, now, for the first time, he hears the familiar clamor of hoofbeats against the dirt. From around the bend ahead of him, a group of armored men trot down the same path. It doesn't worry him however; he has little to no money, and nothing else he has on him is of any value. Still, he unbuckles one of the clasps that holds his staff to his back, and reigns in his mare a bit.

As the group thunders toward him, he recognizes the heraldry engraved in their breastplates: Templars of the southern Chantry. It's no surprise then, that they reign up before him, a group of five, with two flanking him in the rear. So he doesn't get away, predictably.

"Something I can help you with?" Dorian asks with a serene smile. The leader of the group, an ugly blond man with a broad face and bushy beard, frowns at Dorian and nods at him.

"What you doin' round he'a?" Dorian assumes he's speaking, but his accent is just as nasty as his face. "Ain't seen you an' I know all th'mages in these pa'ts."

"Indeed, and a well off one at that," says one Templar who circles around Dorian's back, noting his dress. His staff is undoubtedly a dead give away as well; a long thing wound with a snake, topped with a caged skull that rattles when he moves.

"I'm on my way to Redcliffe," Dorian tells them, though instantly regrets it. These men have come from the south, perhaps passing the village. He's been lucky enough never to meet any Templars of the south, but perhaps they aren't all as savage as the rumors he's heard. They're men, after all.

Given power over other men, though, and that was always dangerous.

The man who had circled them draws up at his side and dismounted, always looking up at Dorian as he takes hold of the headstall of the mage's horse. This is all spooking the mare, and Dorian can feel how tense she already is under him. He squeezes her belly with his heels, as if it's some reassurance, and she huffs.

"I reckon you aren't from these parts," he surmises, making Dorian roll his eyes, "escaped from your own Circle, perhaps?"

Dorian wants to kick him and tell him they didn't really have Circles in Tevinter, but undoubtedly the only thing worse than a mage to these men than is one from Tevinter.

"I belong to no Circle, thank you. There is, however, a magister in Redcliffe I am to meet, and I'm afraid you're holding me up for nothing, so if you'll excuse me," he shoots a glance at the ugly one, "I'll be on my way."

The Templar beside him and his horse laughs and looks back at one of the men at Dorian's rear, so he doesn't see what exchange they have. Either way, the Templar kicks at the mare's feet and pushes up at her headstall with all his might.

She squeals and rears, kicking out at the Templars who give her the space. Dorian has never been a horseman, but he does his best to make his tumble from the saddle not...too painful. His staff doesn't crack upon meeting the ground, so he counts that as positive, but having it slammed into his back as he hits the ground isn't exactly the best feeling. It knocks the wind out of him, and before he can recover the Templars are on him, dragging him to his feet as he gasps for air.

The one who had upset his horse takes Dorian by the hair, forcing him to focus.

"There's only a few things we do with a rogue mage," he says, watching as one of the other Templars takes Dorian's staff.

He takes that opportunity to slam his forehead into the Templar's nose, sending him stumbling back, but then another draws his sword. It's the ugly one, and he brings the pommel of his weapons crashing down into Dorian's cheekbone. His head swims, but before the Ugly Templar can swing again, or the other can regain his composure, a knife comes whipping through the air, end over end. The point finds its mark in the Ugly Templar's face, and all the rest look around frantically, murmuring things like "he's not alone!" and "an ambush!"

Then comes the whistle of an arrow, and the wet thump of them hitting flesh, and a Templar wails, letting one of Dorian's arms free. He smashes a palm into the elbow of the other, forcing it up at an angle that might break bone--he doesn't linger at the man's side long enough to find out. Instead Dorian makes for his staff, which lays forgotten on the ground. The Templars are a flurry of whinnying horses and drawn swords, but their assailants are thus far still out of sight.

A voice cuts the air.

"Human Templars," it booms, neither male nor female, "you trespass on our land. Leave with your lives or stay and die."

Humans, it said, so they are not. Demon? No, demons don't use mortal weapons like knives and bows.

As Dorian stands, he wills fire into the butt of his staff, making it glow hot like a poker, and brings it down on the rump of one of the horses. The Templar atop jerks when his horse screams and takes off, the rider flopping along as he tries to regain his seat.

Before he has a chance to brand another Templar or his mount, a blade to his left swings up and shears straight through his leathers to cut deep into his forearm. That man drops quickly too, however and as Dorian hisses and clutches his arm to his body, a flurry of fletching fly past his head.

None of the arrows hit him, however, and as he turns, he sees his saviors and/or next assailants advance down the hill from where they had been hidden in the tree line. Dalish.

Dorian stumbles, feeling a bit dizzy from both lumps he had taken, and maybe now from the blood streaming down his arm. The Templars have mounted now, and flee with the last of the elven arrows in pursuit. With a relieved sigh, Dorian leans all of his weight on his staff just as one of the Dalish comes to his side. A she-elf, with long chestnut hair and a familiar face.

"Can you stand?" She asks, and he does, nodding.

"I'm- quite alright, thank you," he sighs, turning his arm over to look at the gash. He's been flayed near to the bone, and looks like a side of meat. He curses in Tevene, an old habit, and the she-elf's eyes go wide.

"I know your face," she tells him softly, and puts an arm around his back to steady him. With a gentle touch, she gets him to hand her his staff, and takes his weight. Dorian is lightheaded and feeling rather sickly.

"Do you?" He mutters, watching her hunch his arm over her shoulders before she begins to lead him away from the scene. A few elves pick over the Templar bodies, then heave them into the lake.

"His pony is there, we will take him back to the encampment," she tells the others, and while Dorian means to protest, he knows better. He needs the help, apparently.

For most of the way to the Dalish camp, over  rocks and rather rough terrain, Dorian tries to remember who this elf could be. A former slave, perhaps, but no, he has never seen one of his household with eyes like hers--they are crimson, like drakestone. None of the others are recognizable either; most of them male, and one other female. They are silent and do not tell him their names, simply turn back here and there to see if there comrade needs help hefting him along. In reality Dorian doesn't need her, he's quite fine walking on his own, it's the navigating rocks and fallen trees he doesn't feel too sure about.

Before long, he hears the trickle of a stream and the sounds typical of any camp inhabited by a considerable force. The crackle of fire, children wailing, the clang and clatter of weapons.

" _Mamae_!" The she-elf calls, "Leitos!"

A few tents form up around a communal fire pit, and out of one of them steps an older elf. This one is tall, regal as any great or royal lady Dorian has ever laid eyes on. Her hair is dark grey, like storm clouds, her eyes the same, but there is still youth in her face despite her obvious age. Must be an elvish thing, Dorian thinks.

She speaks to the one at his side in Dalish, so it's mostly lost to him. He catches Templars and Tevinter, and that's it. From one of the tents behind the initial ring, another emerges, the second the she-elf must have called. When Dorian sees him, he feels the familiarity again, and knows that this one and the elf at his side are twins. Same eyes, same nutty brown hair, same red eyes. Their vallaslin are different.

Something dawns on the male's face when he sets eyes on Dorian, and his mouth falls open.

He darts forward, saying something to the older she-elf hurriedly, still in Dalish, as he pushes past her to get to Dorian. Cool, long-fingered hands touch the mage's face, his cheek and temple where he's beginning to bruise.

Dorian frowns.

How could he have forgotten?

The one elf he'd ever seen freed, little Leitos of the Amladaris Household and his hand carved staff, the catacombs in the dead of night.

"You," he sighs in awe and watches Leitos grins wide in recognition.

"Me," he says, looking down to Dorian's arm. He looks to the she-elf, his sister what was her name...

Leita.

More Dalish is spoken, before they're bustling Dorian off yet again, predictably to tend to his wounds, for which he's thankful. As they lead him to a tent, all occupants of the camp have come out to stare, murmuring to one another no doubt of the human bleeding his way through their camp.

The tent they pull him into is blessedly warm and dark, smelling of burning herbs the origin of which Dorian can't place, but the scent soothes him almost immediately. Leitos takes the lead then, guiding him to a little divan that sat next to a table laid out with herbs and queer little instruments, jars of every shape and size filled with Maker knows what kind of tinctures and salves. The she-elf--Leita, he reminds himself--enters the tent leading another male, who doesn't look like he belongs to their family. Dorian marvels at all of them, so graceful and pretty--

"Dorian," Leitos says softly, holding a cup up in front of his face.

"You remember my name," he replies, dumb with his swimming head. The elf presses the cup to his lips, coaxes him to drink the warm, leafy mixture.

"I do." It's said absent-mindedly, as he focuses attention on Dorian's butchered arm. Half a moment seems to pass before the mage is fighting to keep his eyes open, and though it's a bit frightening--being drugged or unconscious and injured around foreigners--Dorian gives in, because his arm does hurt so terribly, and a little nap would do him good...

**  
**  


-

**  
**  


"Leitos, move aside," Leita tells him as their elder brother enters the tent silently, but Leitos does not move. Instead he helps Hamon, their healer, lay Dorian out before his brothers work station, and kneels by the mage, looking down at his familiar face.

When he had seen Leita holding Dorian up at the entrance of their camp with the other hunters, Leitos didn't recognize him. It took a split second, however, because it had been so long. He had been a boy then, compared to what he is now, though at the time he hadn't felt like it--then he was filled with anger, then he was filled with vitriol and venom toward the whole human race.

Now, he hates them a little less.

Suffice it to say he was filled with a certain sort elation upon seeing this particular human. Had he thought of him over the years? Yes, when his mind was idle, he thought of the People he had left in Minrathous, Lady Nemia, and eventually, Dorian of House Pavus. How he could repay the man.

Start by sewing up the meat of his arm, for one.

Hamon has a tourniquet around Dorian's arm to stem the bleeding, then looks to his brother, speaking to him with his hands.

_"You know this one?"_ He says, the only way he can. Hamon was taken with his brother and sister, but sold to a jewel merchant just south of Tevinter when his siblings were sent to the Capitol. When Leitos returned, his brother could neither speak, nor hear very well at all.

"He aided me in my escape from Minrathous," Leitos replies, though he says the words aloud as well. Hamon makes a sign to the god of fortune.

_"Blessed Falon'din."_

He takes his curved bone needle and begins to thread it, quick and clinical as he always is. Leitos can't see the work, but knows his brother and his methods.

"Will it be enough?" He asks, speaking louder because Hamon cannot see his hands. The healer shakes his head, threading the needle through Dorian's honey-brown skin.

Looking back to the mage's face, Leitos watches as if he weren't unconscious, pretends he's only worried. The curled mustachios Dorian wore now somehow suited him, and the image of his younger visage comes to mind. It hasn't been so long that everything has changed, but his skin is a little more sun-darkened, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes now set in his skin (however small they are).

Hamon has to use what is left of his voice to break Leitos from his reverie. He apologizes to his brother, and moves to help dress the wound with a balm of spindleweed, before they bind it with cloth. There's blood trickling from a small gash above Dorian's eyebrow, so Hamon cleans that up and dabs it with his ointment as well, before he looks over the rest of him.

_"He'll sleep till dark,"_ Hamon signs, _"we should find him clean dress."_

Leitos nods in agreement, stranding and preceding his brother out of the tent. Outside, their mother waits, arms crossed over her chest.

Hamdaan has been the Keeper of Clan Lavellan since Leitos' father died years ago. She's a stern disciplinarian, beautiful, and skilled with bow and knife like many of them are. Only when her three youngest children were taken, bought and sold into slavery, did she develop a strong distaste for the human race, and it has never abated as it has for some of the others. Leitos worries for her reaction.

"Who is he?" She asks him immediately, because Leita had not thought to tell her, apparently.

"Mother," he starts respectfully, looking up at her, "how he's fallen into our hands I cannot say, but that is the man who spirited me through the Catacombs under Minrathous and delivered me to Leita. If he would not have dissuaded a pair of guards, I may yet be a slave in Tevinter."

He watches the Keeper's face change as he speaks. She had been frowning, angry at an outsider, a human no less, in her camp, but her face falls slack when she heard him. Then the line of her lips goes thin; she isn't happy about it.

"He isn't severely injured, and I would like to let him stay a while, till he sees fit to go on his way," Leitos continues, "I take responsibility for him, for the time."

She narrows her eyes.

"You're sure he was alone?" She asks Leita, who has come to stand at their mother's side.

"Yes mother," she replies, hazarding a glance to Leitos, "scouts sighted him on the Imperial Highway not two days ago, and he was by himself."

"And what do you think of this one," Keeper Hamdaan asks her next. There is a long silence.

"I saw him as Leitos came up from the Catacombs, remember. I thanked him, and he... He said he did nothing."

Leitos remembers this, and how he had wept and embraced Dorian, pressed a kiss to his forehead. The thought of how he felt then, at that moment, came rushing back to him, and it nearly brought tears to his eyes. The relief, the sheer joy of seeing his sister again, and the prospect of seeing his family after so many years.

"...I'll see him when he wakes." Hamdaan  steps over to her son, and touches her hand to Leitos' face. "We owe him many thanks for returning out First to us." A smile lights on his face, and as his mother walks away, Leitos turns his grin to Leita. She returns it and comes to his side, taking his arm.

"Many thanks," she giggles, conspiratorially, " _special_ thanks, hm?" With an arched eyebrow, she gives her brother a suggestive look as they make their way no where in particular.

Leitos laughs. A few of their nieces and nephews chase each other along the river’s bank, and through the maze of tents that he and his sister entered.

"Hamon says I have Falon'Din to thank for bringing him back to us," he muses, "it's incredibly fortuitous. Odd, even, though I can't imagine he would have found us on purpose."

"Or been set upon by Templars on purpose," Leita adds. Nodding, her twin pushes some of his thick hair away from his face.

"You have me there."

"You didn't tell me he too was a mage," she says next.

"He's Tevinter, Leita, what did you think he would be? Even some of their slaves were mages." He remembers when another Dalish elf joined house Amladaris, she had been pushed on them by her family, begging the knoblemen to send her to be trained as a mage, in hopes they would one day see her again. They never did.

"Well what is he doing down here? Don't the humans hate Tevinter?" They had learned much of the politics of humans during their time in Minrathous.

"I think _everyone_ hates Tevinter..." Both siblings chuckle at this. "More than that I'll have to ply out of him when he wakes." Leitos smirks at his sister, and the two separate, the latter going for her bow, seeing as their hunt for dinner earlier had been interrupted.

**  
**  


-

**  
**  


Dorian wakes, slowly, fuzzily, as if he was resurfacing from a lake made of syrup. He groans, though he only hears the sound distantly. His surroundings are warmly lit, a few things vaguely discernible as shapes across from where he is laid out on something...rather comfortable. He's warm, too, and it's terribly tempting to close his eyes, slip into a black, dreamless sleep again. But momentarily he doesn't remember where he is or why he's there, and decides it's in his best interest to find out, therefore wake up. Perhaps he'd be able to return to this warm cocoon of a place once he ascertains where exactly that is.

Once his vision is clear, he starts to push himself to sit up, but a bolt of pain shoots up his left arm, slapping him back into reality from the drugged haze he prefers to the more painful world he's in now. He shifts his weight onto his right hand, so he can look at his left and--ah yes.

The Templars, the elves, little Leitos and his twin sister.

His body throbs with an all-over sort of hurt. The tent flap flicks open, and another Dalish that Dorian doesn't recognize steps inside. He has dark hair and skin like Leitos, but his eyes and vallaslin are light in color. They look at each other for a moment, before the elf comes in and moves to the table in the opposite corner of the room to fiddle some of the pots and flasks and herbs that lay on them. There's a withdrawn quality about him, his body almost permanently drawn in on itself, to make himself look small. Which he is in a way, much shorter than Leitos but he is just as thin, just as lithe. When he turns to Dorian again, he looks distracted.

"I suppose I should thank you for this?" He points to his arm. The elf kneels down in front of him, outstretching his hand "You look to be the healer."

No reply, no hint of anything, and Dorian looks down at his fingers, which grip a little bundle of white flower and green leaf. The elf motions to him again, hand inching closer to Dorian's face.

"I've had my fill of elvhen antidotes for the evening, thank you," he says. The healer does not look happy with him, but his expression barely changes.

He speaks then, finally, but the words are thick, not entirely indiscernible, yet spoken as if the elf never quite learned to speak.

"For the pain," he said.

"Apologies," Dorian murmurs, though he realizes belatedly this elf may not be able to hear him. He takes the herbs, and inclines his head in thanks. In the moments as he chews, the healer is off out of the tent, and Dorian is taken with curiosity. He chews, trying to ignore the slightly bitter, earthy taste of the leaves and their flowers, then stands to follow the path of his silent keeper.

The sun has gone down, but the camp is lit all around with fire, casting beautiful shadows onto the sails of the Dalish wagons. It looks a proper city like this, little groups of elves gathered round their respective cook fires, or passing between the home-tents carrying baskets or jugs of water. Dorian has never encountered this part of Dalish life. He doesn't mean to watch for so long, and only stops when he spots movement coming toward him, the healer and a few others. Unsure what to do, he ducks back into the tent to keep whatever violence or argument may ensue somewhat private. Still concerned with propriety, Dorian, he thinks.

Into the tent, comes the older she-elf with another he doesn't recognize, Leitos, and the healer who immediately makes himself some sort of the business at his work station. Leitos comes to his side, delicately touches his left.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asks, fingers moving to Dorian's temple. The mage has forgotten he had been hit there too.

"Quite, other than being a little disoriented. I think I insulted your healer," he tells the elf, who nods and purses his lips as if to say 'yeah probably'. It almost makes Dorian laugh.

"Chances are he couldn't hear you," he says as he inspects the man's bound arm again. Dorian glances at him, then at the other elves that still stand just inside, looking at Dorian look at them.

"I guessed not," the Mage adds, though it's quiet as he seems to be under some scrutiny.

"He used to speak, before he was carried off and sold to a jewel merchant on the coast," the matriarchal elf tells him, "and when we found him again, half starved and beaten within an inch of his life, he had lost the ability. Hamon, is his name."

 

"Excuse me," Leitos murmurs, stepping behind Dorian, but still close to his side, "this is my mother, Keeper Hamdaan."

Their Keeper, Dorian should have known. He inclines his head politely, stopping himself from just short of making a full, sweeping bow.

"My lady."

She chuckles at him, but it's warm instead of patronizing.

"I am no lady, but the sentiment is...noted," she continues on with a pleasant little smile on her face, work-worn hands clasped before her. "Leitos has told me of what you did for him, and I have come to extend thanks, not only from his mother, but from Clan Lavellan."

He's never heard that name before. Leitos Lavellan.

"He is out First, blessed with magic far greater than we could have ever dreamed to ask the gods for." Dorian can read the intense sincerity in her eyes, and for a moment, he glances back to Leitos, who is close, and they are of a height.

Then, Keeper Hamdaan bends at the waist, and bows to him.

"Maker _no_ , good mother, don't bow to me," he huffs, reaching forward to her shoulders in bewilderment. "Never, please I - " It was a sign of respect, to be sure, but he could never see an elf, the Keeper, no less, of a clan that had been so slighted by his people as this, bow to him.

"Please, your thanks are more than enough. I'm honored, truly, by your actions and your hospitality," he tells her with a smile, trying not to sound so terribly flustered. Her ears move a little, the points moving back as her expression changes into something hard for a moment before it relaxes.

"You have him to thank for that. If it had been up to me, at first glance, I would have tossed you in the river," she says, and now they are not on such serious terms. The mage grins at her.

"Thank you for not doing that, I'm not a fan of water."

Hamdaan chuckles.

"Excuse my manners, Keeper Hamdaan, and that I did not introduce myself. Dorian, of House Pavus, previously of Minrathous," he adds with a sweep of his hand, but again that makes her laugh. She reaches out to take his uninjured hand.

"Yes, little _shem_ , I gathered as much." Squeezing his hand in hers, Hamdaan steps close and places her second over it. "Dorian, of House Pavus, previously of Minrathous, currently of the lands of Clan Lavellan, stay awhile. My son has...volunteered to see you are comfortable."

Of course he has.

"Many thanks, to you and your people. And to Leita and the ones who killed those blighted Templars," Dorian grumbles the last bit.

Hamdaan releases his hand and gestures to the elf behind her. This one is more thick-boned than the others, and chorded with muscle.

"Havest is one," she says, "the others no doubt are for their dinners. But I will leave you to my sons' care. Rest easy."

With that, she leaves the tent. The other elf, Havest, apparently, stays.

"I extend my thanks as well," he says, his voice surprisingly deep, "for helping my brother." He reaches out and clasps Dorian's right arm, which the Mage mirrors.

"Another of his brothers? How many of you are there?" He asks to an audience of laughter, save for silent Hamon behind them.

"Just the four," Leitos chimes in again finally, looking to the other brother, who grins at him.

"But we're close," Havest adds before he pushes out of the tent and into the fresh night air. Dorian finds himself suddenly dying for a lungful, instead of the close air of the healers tent. He hadn't noticed before, but little candles are burning all around them in candelabras made of antler and wood and bone, the wax and wicks stuck in animal skulls of various size and shape.

"Well, there's plenty of food and drink if you're of a mind, but otherwise I had a place made up in my own tent, if you'd rather." Moving to the tent's flap, Leitos holds it open for Dorian with a small smile on his handsome face. It isn't all that different from the last and technically first time they'd met, and yet it is. Perhaps it's the hair, Dorian thinks, because it's quite a bit longer, save for one side of his head that is cut close.

"You've grown up a bit, haven't you," Dorian tells the elf as he slips outside. The night is cool in contrast to the tent, but when he breathes deep, it feels much better. Everything does, in fact; his pain feels dull, only a minor thing even though he knows his arm is flayed.

"I wasn't so young when I left the Capitol." Leitos' reply sounds just a touch defensive, but in an endearing way. "My hair a bit longer, skin a little wind burnt, perhaps. Your mustache, however," he says and cocks his head in an uncertain way, "that is something else."

"I believe 'dashing', or 'devilishly handsome' is the something else you're looking for," Dorian tells the elf's back as they make their way back through the camp, to why he assumes is Leitos' tent. It's a large bivouac, but that's all he sees before he's steered toward a cook fire where Leita is turning something on a spit.

"Come now, you didn't need the mustache for all that." Leitos' smirk is the epitome of insinuation, and lights Dorian up with sheer delight.

"Dinner’s ready, unless you two are content to keep flirting," Leita tells them as she stands to remove the animal from its stake, thunking it down on a slab of wood beside the fire. There is a clay pot on the table too, no doubt full of wine the elves had gained in a trade, and that Dorian is endlessly grateful for. He sends up a silent thanks to the handful of Dalish gods he can remember off-hand.

It's a family affair, sharing a meal with the elves. Hamon, his wife and their two children join them, as well as Havest, who has a man with him, as a motley of plates and cups from all over Thedas were passed around. They are heaped with meat--mountain goat, Dorian surmises--tender and swimming in its own juices, and the wine is sweet, just this side of strong enough.

Leitos shares not only a seat by the fire with Dorian, but a small loaf of a fragrant flatbread. He's hungrier than he had thought, and doesn't realize he's devouring the meal like an animal until he hears Leitos laugh at him. The elf waves a dismissive hand when Dorian looks at him.

"You must have been on the road for some time if you enjoy Leita's cooking that much," he teases, and apparently his sister hears, because a piece of bread flies over the fire, and hits Leitos in the face.

"In my defense, I have been, and in her defense, it's the best meal I've had since leaving the North," Dorian says, before dragging his own bread through some of the pooled sauce in the recess of his plate.

"Bastard is giving you a hard time," Leita calls to him, as Leitos grins to himself. "The elfroot can make you ravenous, if they give you too much."

Dorian nods his understanding before washing down his mouthful with what he figures is an Orlesian white.

"It can," Leitos confirms, bumping his shoulder against Dorian's. "I was hoping maybe you'd start to talk about your journey down here. It seemed like when we were winding our way through the back streets of the Capitol you wanted to tell me all about yourself, and now you're quiet as a mouse."

Dorian remembers, he remembers well. He'd been a different man then, much more careless and open than he was now. He was reckless, gave into his whims more, though he still did that more often than he'd like to admit.

"Maker help you if I start to talk about the Silent Plains," he says with a bitter laugh. Void take that place.

"Our camp was just on the other side of the Plains, waiting for Leita and I after we had gone," Leitos tells him lightly, "we were caught in a sandstorm the next night and day."

When Dorian looks at him, there's a fond look on Leitos' face.

"It could have been raining piss and I would have been happy, though."

"Naturally." Dorian doesn't want to tell him he knows the feeling, if at least slightly.

"Why did you leave?" The elf asks suddenly with a odd cock of his head. Dorian rolls his eyes as he lifts his chalice to his lips, and takes along swill. His words are loosened enough by the liquor that the truth almost pours out of him.

"Well as much as I miss the feather beds and decent wine - " his words echo into his cup as he drains it, " - it even became intolerable for me to live there."

His host is silent for a few moments, before he purses his lips, and sits straight. Dorian is grateful he doesn't ask why--his wounds he left his home with were fresher still than the ones he had acquired earlier in the day.

**  
**  


As they all finish their dinner, the siblings talk to him, ask him of politics in the North, and Leitos and his twin, once they start to ask about the Capitol, begin to ask after slaves they remembered when they were serving in this household or that. It put a pit in his stomach, the guilt he felt when he could not recall any of these Dalish slaves even though they were from different Houses he had never associated with.

Dorian can feel himself start to shut down when he speaks of home, when he thinks of it and how the sting of betrayal had caught him so off guard. Of all things, above hurt and offense, he had felt betrayed by his father, and subsequently any other Tevinter that felt as he did. How dare they outcast him? He could have been one of the most spectacular Altus mages the Imperium had ever seen, and yet.

And yet.

The elves picked up on his obvious discomfort, and, giving her brother a look, Leita stands from her place by the fire to bid everyone good night. She speaks in Dalish to her siblings, kissing this little one or that on the head before she goes. Dorian can feel Leitos staring at him, red gaze intent and curious.

"Are you still feeling well?" He asks softly, shifting a little closer to the mage until their shoulders touch. Resting his arms over the caps of his knees, the elf perches his chin on his bicep. "How's your head?"

"Quite," Dorian replies with a put-on smile, "the cut hurts, but further than that the... Whatever your brother gave me and the wine have paired nicely to spare me some discomfort." The way the elf grins is warm, genuine and happy. Makes Dorian feel welcome.

"Good. Any time you'd like to retire, feel free, my tent is just there," he tells the mage as he extends an arm, his graceful fingers gesturing to a large round tent near the tree line. Dorian sees his pony grazing contentedly near by.

"I'm rather enjoying the wine, and the fire, to be quite frank." With that, he fills his cup once more. He's feeling a lovely sort of buzz, something that makes his skin feel very...alive, and he wonders if the drink is Orlesian at all.

"To be quite frank," Leitos echoes, holding out his cup, a clay rhyton in the shape of a halla head with lovely, and probably real antlers, to be filled as well, "I'm rather enjoying the company."

The elf gives him a look as Dorian fills his cup to the very brim.

"That as well," the mage agrees as he stretches one leg out straight, sighing at the feeling. There's still blood splashed over his tunic and trousers, dry and flaking, but it seems the elves had done well to stop the bleeding before he soiled his clothes entirely.

"So," Leitos starts again, "traveling south, alone on the Imperial Highway. Where were you going?"

"Away," Dorian replies easily, though amends that statement, "I have a friend in Redcliffe, a magister and his son."

The elf gives him silence for a few moments.

"You don't like talking about your home."

"Less than you seem to," the mage says with a scoff, but a slight smile. Leitos returns it.

"The pain I experienced there, at the hands of your people, I left in the city," he explains, and Maker, do all elves sound so wise, or is it just him? "You have not." Another silence, because Dorian doesn't know what to say, and this makes Leitos lean closer, his weight pushing against the mage's shoulder.

"Don't tell me, if it hurts so much. But know that you're here with me, and I owe you a very great debt for what you undertook with me."

There seems no use in fighting any of the elves when they said they were in his debt.

"You and your debt, damn you, you owe me nothing," Dorian says into his cup as he takes a long drink of wine. When he lowers it, Leitos has moved, his arms unfolded, and one hand pressed into the dirt behind Dorian.

"Well I needed some sort of excuse," he mutters, clearly exasperated with the mage.

But then he is close enough for Dorian to feel a puff of breath on his wine-wet lips, and then Leitos is kissing him. It's soft, but demands his full attention as the elf's tongue parts his lips, tasting like the sweet liquor they shared. Dorian sets his cup in the dirt, uncaring if it tips over, so he can rest a hand against Leitos' cheek to pull him in closer and closer still. The elf hums into his mouth happily, teeth grazing Dorian's lips as he draws back just a moment, before their mouths slide together again.

Somewhere in the camp, there is quiet, sad music playing.

"Ah, little elf," Dorian murmurs when they part, though it is only for a moment. Leitos gives him a soft peck of lips again, and nuzzles sweetly into Dorian's hand like a pet.

"I've dreamt of doing that," he says, and it sounds like a confession, "I dreamt of your face and taking it between my hands to kiss you, and thank you in a million and one ways." It is both suggestive and innocent, but makes Dorian's lips curve into a half-smile.

He wants to kiss Leitos again, his lips are plush and soft and move as if he has all the time in the world to luxuriate in such things. With all of his lovers, Dorian cannot. They take what they need and perhaps share a drink, a word, a kiss that tells the lie that they will again see one another when things are different. Perhaps this is different, because their ties are simple, undemanding.

"I would protest again, but if this is how you offer your thanks, I would gladly have it," Dorian tells him, moving in again to claim Leitos' mouth.

This time is hungrier, and the elf digs his thin fingers into the back of Dorian's neck, arching just so until their chests touch. He's fit to fall back into the dirt, really, and pull Dorian over him, but stays and puts his free hand out to take both of their weight as the mage leans into him as they kiss.

It's good to feel someone like this again, Dorian thinks, to feel another warm body move against his, to taste someone again. Not that it was ever something he would forget but...something he didn't always _want_ to remember, but Leitos kisses like he wants Dorian to devour him, and that is wholly irresistible.

"To my tent, then," the elf says in a breathy little voice when next he withdraws. Dorian chuckles, grabbing the jug of wine as the two of them get to their feet. Standing makes him realize just how much he's drunk, but it feels good, _he_ feels good, though he often did when he was about to go to bed with someone.

He follows Leitos into his tent, which is slightly larger than the healer's tent, and more sparsely decorated. There is a table that seems to serve as a desk in the corner, stacked with a bundle of papers, quills, and a few knives. Leaning against it, is Dorian's staff, and another that looks like a great tree, with branches that tower close to the canvas ceiling. Half carved horns lie about the little table as well, knife and sword hilts, a part of a large branch that will one day become a bow. They're all terribly beautiful, and for a few moments Dorian wants to inspect what is apparently all Leitos' handiwork.

"You're brilliant with... All of this," he waves a hand at the half-finished weapons.

"Thank you," Leitos replies with a gracious nod.

On the opposite side of the room where the elf stands, there isn't a bed, but soft-looking furs, silks and coverlets and bedclothes with designs from Orlais and Antiva, from Fereldan to the Free Marches. Pillows, too.

"Maker's _balls_." Dorian sighs in relief when he sees it, and the elf laughs. "What I would have paid for a proper bed these past months."

"I wouldn't call it a proper bed," Leitos points out as he lowers himself to it, and though there is no frame or discernible mattress, there is just a little height to raise it up off the cool ground that is laid with rugs. The elf begins to untie the doeskin boots he wears, as Dorian walks up to the pile of bed-things, next to which rests a haphazardly packed bundle that he recognizes as his own.

"Whatever it is, I like it," he says as he unceremoniously drops onto the bed on his back, just drunk enough not to care about being rude. They're obviously past that, and the bed is so terribly soft, an oasis of what he can tell is goose down beneath him. He doesn't feel the weight shift until Leitos is just next to him, swinging one leg over his waist.

"If you'd like to sleep first, by all means, do so," he says with a devious grin, but his hands say otherwise as they start to work at the buckles of Dorian's tunic and belt. The mage folds his hands behind his head, looking up at the creature before him.

"Are all elves so lascivious, or is it just you?" He asks, watching Leitos purse his lips as he thinks.

"Well, we've got the same parts, don't we," the elf muses, "if you consider my advances lascivious, I can't imagine what you'll think of what we'll be doing next."

"Mm, I've simply always seen your people as..." The statement dies on his tongue quite quickly, and Leitos pauses to raise an eyebrow.

Thankfully, he laughs. "As what? Demure slaves who only live for their masters commands? Surely you aren't so stupid."

Truly, that isn't what Dorian thinks, but he's never yet met an elf that was as honest as Leitos, as receptive and eager to know him as the one now astride his hips. It's refreshing, he supposes.

"Not in the least my dear," he replies with an easy smile, "I do not have much experience with free elves, let alone one who wants to bed me."

Again the elf purses his lips in understanding agreement, and nods. He slips the leather of Dorian's belt aside, and moves on to untie his trousers, though once those are undone, he goes back to the man's tunic.

"I can imagine. Though I find it hard to believe you never fancied any of your slaves. Or that your father sent one to you when you were young to teach you _just_ how your body worked."

Dorian balked. "Void take that damn country, did Irian do that to you?"

This time Leitos is quiet for a while, as he works at the mage's clothes, his expression blank and yet somehow considering. Dorian pushes up onto his right elbow, and, careful of his injury, takes one of the elf's hands.

"You do not owe me like that," he says fervently, squeezing the delicate bones of Leitos' wrist, "I don't want that sort of repayment."

His head cocks just a bit, and Leitos frowns, crimson eyes narrowing. "I've taken you in of my own agency," he says, words firm, "and yes Irian did that, plenty of times. Do not be so shocked that is how your people treated me, I've more than overcome it."

"They are my people no longer," Dorian murmurs, releasing his grip on the elf. That seems to surprise Leitos, but he says nothing, and instead moves in to slot their mouths together, slow once more.

This time, Dorian can touch him, pull him down until their bodies are flush and he can feel every little movement the elf makes atop him. Leitos continues to undress him, though, pushing at the sides of Dorian's tunic when he has it open, and sliding his hands inside. They're warm and dry, but Maker does it feel good. It says something that he feels as if he'd been starved of this, because just before he had left Minrathous, Dorian had partook in just about any young man that would have him, drunk on anything he could get his hands on every night of the week. The sluggishness of this is different, lets him savor what he'd been without for what isn't actually a very long time.

When Leitos starts to squirm, grind down into him with slow, purposeful churns of his hips, Dorian rolls them so their positions are switched. It's too easy to overpower the elf, but he seems to like it, humming and biting his lip as he smirks. Now it's Dorian's turn to undress, and he tries to do so just as slowly, but isn't successful. Instead he pulls the loose shirt Leitos wears over his head, and seals his mouth to the elf's bronzed skin, savoring its softness under his tongue. Above him Leitos makes small sounds, half-whimpers when the mage closes wet lips around a nipple. Fingers curl tight in Dorian's hair, not demanding, just there for a handhold as he teases each nipple to stiff, pebbled peaks. He moves lower.

The elf is gloriously built, however deceiving his clothes make him look. He is a finely tuned weapon, an instrument that tonight, Dorian will delight in playing. A thick trail of hair leads down to where Leitos' breeches hang low on his lips, and it occurs to Dorian that he isn't wearing any underclothes, the line of his stiff cock all but embossed into the fine fabric of his pants. It's a mouth watering sight, and before he does much else, he fits his mouth to its shape, letting his tongue flick out and wet the cloth.

Above him Leitos moans, his hips shifting toward Dorian's face, and the mage licks his lips. No matter what position he takes with a lover, giving or taking, he has always loved sucking cock. Loved the feeling of slick, velvety skin sliding over his tongue, loved the taste, the thrill of power it gives him. Thinking about it makes him throb, and without much ceremony, he sits up to pull Leitos' trousers off his slender legs.

"Dorian," the elf sighs, reverent, his hands reaching out to the mage.

"Yes, _amatus_ ," he replies, though he knows it wasn't a question or demand, but he answers anyway.

"You don't mean that," Leitos says unexpectedly with a breathily laugh as Dorian gives his palm a wet kiss, and settles between the elf's legs again. His cock is lovely, curving up to his belly just slightly, his foreskin gathered under the pink head prettily as it twitches under such scrutiny. Dorian chuckles, taking Leitos in hand.

"Perhaps not," is all he replies, before pressing his tongue to the glans of Leitos' cock. Again a hand fists in his hair, and it's then the mage decides he wants to make Leitos come like this, before anything else.

He sets about his work.

And damned if he couldn't turn it to work, be the most high-priced whore in all of Thedas with a line of men the length of the Frostbacks--but then again, he wouldn't like to. He could be a very rich man if he made his living on his knees, but he gets much more pleasure out of it like this.

This, pushing himself until he feels Leitos' prick hit the back of his throat, and further still until he feels himself nearly gag. It makes the elf gasp, look down at Dorian with wide eyes and a frown, but the mage simply smirks, closing his eyes as he brushes his lips along the length of him.

"So soft," he murmurs almost inaudible, and moves up to lave his tongue over the head, where precome has started to gather the more aroused Leitos has become. It tastes different, to Dorian's utter delight and dismay, so he takes a moment to savor it, before turning back.

Pushing back the foreskin with his tongue, Dorian applies a gentle suction that makes Leitos arch, his mouth falling open on a long groan that the mage is too happy he has drawn out. The little elf has been too quiet thus far, and now that he has broken his silence, Dorian can truly begin.

Still, he takes his time. Swallows Leitos down until he chokes, pulls off with a thick string of spit still trailing from his lips as he uses his hand while he takes a breath.

"Ah, _ma vhenan'ara_ ," Leitos breathes, gazing down at Dorian again, who licks his lips, and tongues the slit of he elf's cock.

"And what, pray tell, does that mean?" He asks, filling his mouth again. Leitos actually laughs, an elated sound.

"A lie not unlike yours," he replies with a forced breath and a smile in his voice. Dorian would have returned it, were his lips not occupied as they were. He changes his mind, however, and withdraws slowly again with a wet little sound as he sucks back his saliva.

"Tell me, little elf, when it's too much," he tells Leitos lowly, his voice too thick, "I like to watch."

" _Ma nuvenin_ ," is his reply, which satisfies Dorian.

Like its the last act of a dying man, he works Leitos with lips and tongue and throat, hands ghosting over muscular thighs when they are not occupied. Dorian is even so bold as to slick his thumb with spit, and presses it against the furl of Leitos' hole, which makes his whole body jerk in surprise, but he makes no protest. No, nothing like a protest; Leitos calls this in Dalish and in tongues Dorian understands, praising his talented and wicked tongue, calling the Creators and their wrath down upon him. It's beautiful, really, and Dorian loses himself in the act. In Leitos and his pleasure.

Finally though, he goes tense, a pained cry falling from his lips as Dorian swallows hard around the head of his cock.

"There, gods Dorian, like that I'm -" Silenced then, when Dorian sucks him hard and whorls his tongue. His uninjured hand squeezes gently the soft, pliant skin of Leitos' sack, coaxing him quickly to climax.

Again the elf goes rigid, one hand fisted in his bedsheets, the other in Dorian's hair, giving a final wounded whimper before he goes silent. Dorian holds off on drawing away, because Maker take him, he had wanted to taste what Leitos had to give--but watching is so much better. With twitches that are nearly imperceptible, his cock spurts, painting his belly and chest with thick white ropes again, again, again. The last few, the aftershocks are sluggish and simply ooze from him, rolling down his cock and Dorian's knuckles as he strokes Leitos through it.

"Lovely," the man says, though his throat is so well used his voice has turned to gravel. Now, Dorian can't help but close his lips over the elf's cock again, though this time he is gentle, knowing how sensitive Leitos must be.

The taste of his come is even better. Dorian laps it up with long strokes of his tongue, until Leitos is soft and pushing at his head. He only moves up from there, however, dragging his tongue over the taught skin where Leitos had made an utter mess of himself.

"Like it, do you," the elf mutters, his tone all lazy satisfaction. Dorian looks up at him as he rolls the taste around in his mouth, and swallows, giving Leitos a show. A smile, and he brushes an errant chunk of black hair from the mage's forehead.

"Terribly," Dorian admits, and goes on cleaning Leitos like a cat.

The elf chuckles softly as he puts his hands on Dorian, in his hair, on his shoulder, slipping under the loosened collar of his tunic, while he mouths his way up to Leitos' lips. Of course, the kiss tastes of his release, and the wine that lingers on the elf's tongue and _ah yes, the wine_.

Sitting up and turning back, Dorian reaches out to take up the jug, now nearly empty, and tips it up to his lips. Leitos laughs and stretches languidly, adjusting his long limbs until he's comfortable on his makeshift mattress.

"I hope that isn't all you have planned for the evening," he tells Dorian, poking his thigh with a nimble toe. The mage nearly spits out his mouthful of wine.

"Oh sweetling," he chuckles, offering Leitos the jug, "I'm not an _entirely_ selfless lover, unfortunately." To punctuate his statement, Dorian runs a palm over the crotch of his pants that is very obviously strained by his erection.

Leitos sits up to take a long drink, sighing after one, and going in for another. The second is a little careless, and sends a rivulet of the wine running down the elf's chin, and down his neck. It almost follows the path of his tattoos, and simultaneously gives Dorian an idea. 

First, however, he pushes his tunic the rest of the way off, and then pulls at the strings of his breeches. He doesn't take those off, however, because he likes the friction, the pressure they keep on his cock. Leitos presses his lips together, tongue slipping out to wet them while he watches.As Dorian moves forward to the elf, he takes the jug of wine to find it very nearly empty, but that was just fine, and he sets it on the soft coverlets next to Leitos. He leans in for another kiss, chasing the sweet taste on Leitos' tongue, then to his lips and down his chin. Dorian licked the dribble of wine from the elf's neck, staying to drag his teeth across the skin, over the apple of his throat. Then, with his injured hand, he takes the clay jar, and presses the rim to Leitos' lips.

He catches on, mouth opening and eyes closing as Dorian tips the jug back haphazardly. That's on purpose, a bit of it spilling again and running down Leitos' jaw and chin. When it's empty, Dorian casts the clay jar aside, and moves in again to kiss the elf, tongue laving over tattooed skin to taste both the salt-tang of skin and the sweetness of the wine that lingers, still cool enough to raise goosebumps all over Leitos' body. He chuckles, though, shivering a bit as he guides Dorian back to his mouth, and like that they stay for a while. He is, if nothing else, a creature of indulgence.

Leitos withdraws eventually, and twists to retrieve something hidden from under one of his many layers of coverlets. It's a tiny stoppered jar, thin and even warm to the touch. Something enchanted perhaps, and when Leitos presses it into the mage's hand, he smiles so Dorian understands before he lies back. The elf spreads his knees around Dorian's hips, looking positively inviting, though he's silent. There's just a lingering smile on his lips, his hair mussed and already making him look well fucked.

"Impatient, are we?" Dorian says as he sits back on his haunches and uncorks the little vial so he can slick a few fingers of his good hand. Sidling in closer, he again rubs a thumb over Leitos' hole, and watches it clench a little under his attentions.

"It's been too long," Leitos explains, sounding more conversational that sensual. It's amusing.

"I'll take my time then," Dorian says as he pressed gently, his thumb sliding inside with just a slight resistance, though Leitos is tight around it. The elf gives little reaction, just wiggles his hips and gets comfortable with the intrusion as Dorian strokes his thumb over Leitos' inner walls.

In the end, it's Leitos who gets impatient with Dorian, a hot flush high in his cheeks that looks terribly good on him as he writhes on three of the mage's fingers. He's plenty open, and very near hard again, so once he has discarded his trousers for good, Dorian hauls the elf up to sit in his lap. Somewhere, far off in the camp, someone is still plucking the strings of an instrument, and Leitos hums along, one arm curled about Dorian's shoulders.

"Allow me," he says, a cheeky little smirk on his face as he holds a hand out for the vial of whatever unguent he used. Between them, he tips it over and lets the substance drizzle sloppily over Dorian's cock, his groin, and just a bit over his own till they're both well and messy with it. Again Leitos grins, eyes heavy lidded as he leans in to press his open mouth to Dorian's, and a hand wraps around his now _excruciatingly_ hard length. Having not touched it at all in their first little tumble, and now having a hand sliding over him easy as silk makes Dorian groan into Leitos' mouth.

The air starts to crackle around them then, Dorian can all but hear it popping, and before he knows it there's something _else_ Leitos has done with his hand, something that has all of Dorian's muscles tensing as the elf touches him. It draws strangled, rather embarrassing little whimpers out of him, and Dorian is already on the edge of orgasm.

"Stop," he breathes, begs, "stop, stop. That's not fair." The fizzing energy in the air fades in an instant, and Leitos tilts his head to kiss at Dorian's jaw. He's smiling.

"Been too long for you as well?" He purrs, shifting closer and closer still until he is chest to chest to Dorian, then rises up on his knees. Still clinging with one hand to the mage, Leitos reaches back to hold his cock in place as he lowers himself down.

Dorian closes his eyes, arms wrapped tight around Leitos' waist as his cock sinks into encompassing heat and _bliss_. Again he thanks all of the elvhen gods, whoever they may be and if they were listening.

"Perhaps," he sighs, breath held tight in his chest until Leitos is fully seated in his lap once more, and he can drape both elegant arms around Dorian's neck. Without words, Leitos stares at him, running the backs of his fingers over Dorian's cheekbone as he rolls his hips, and because there's no lift to the motion, it simply grinds the man's cock into him, squeezes his muscles about it.

"Fucking _Creators_ , you're bigger than the last man I had," Leitos whispers as he curls his fingers of both hands into Dorian's hair. This time he does tug gently to tip back his head for another kiss.

"Tell me about him," Dorian tells him, unable to help rolling his hips up, and unable to keep sounds from spilling into the warm air. Leitos is hard again, prick trapped between their stomachs.

"Mmm," he hums as he begins to push up onto his knees, reacting to Dorian's apparent need for friction. "A human, from some village near the Emerald Graves that - that was set upon by freemen- " When Dorian fucks up into him with a rough movement, Leitos goes silent for a half a moment, "wasn't so thick as you, but gods did he use me well. Rode me good and hard, but he liked - _oh_ , he loved fucking my mouth even more."

As erotic as the story is, Dorian feels a twinge of jealous in the pit of his stomach.

_Really Dorian,_ he thinks, _he is not yours by any means, and it's not as if you've come to him a blushing virgin._

_Yes, but no Orlesian will ever be a better lover that I,_ he counters himself, _resolving to prove as much to the elf._

Getting his knees under himself, and properly holds Leitos to him, Dorian thrusts up again, this time letting his cock very nearly slide free on the outstroke. It draws a sharp gasp from Leitos when Dorian drags him back down into his lap, pushing his cock deep in the sweet wet heat of the elf's body. He makes beautiful sounds when Dorian starts to set a pace, slow, but deep.

The fire crackles in the iron brazier next to them, the wood settling and sending up sparks as Dorian has Leitos all but bouncing in his lap with the force of his thrusts.

"Gods, yes, _ma vhenan_ ," he moans, fingers scraping over Dorian's shoulders, digging into the thick muscle as his head falls back, the ends of his hair trailing over the mage's arm where he's being held. Dorian, doing the best he can, really, with a sliced-open arm, uses that hand to reach up and twist the soft locks around his fingers. He pulls gently, watching at Leitos melts into the touch, the slight hurt of it, and with his hands clutched tight at the back of Dorian's neck, he lets himself lean back even further. It's a position that relies on the push and pull of their bodies, but it's the perfect kind, gives Dorian the best leverage to sink his cock deep.

Not a position for longevity, though, so he lowers them both to the bed, weight held on his left arm as he pushes Leitos onto his back delicately. Pain sings up into his shoulder, and when he hisses, Leitos' eyes go wide.

"What did y- " he starts, and makes Dorian sit right back up again, which subsequently separates them in more ways than one. Leitos turns the mage's arm over in his hands and the two of them watch a few patches of blood blossom in the dressing fabric.

"It feels quite alright," Dorian insists, because the pain is just an ache now, and anyway, he's done more with worse. He thinks. Leitos lips twitches, and he shoves at Dorian's shoulder.

"Tch. On your back then, you fool," he murmurs, the look on his face like a irate nursemaid, but somehow that comparison doesn't render Dorian instantly flaccid. It's a good look on Leitos, he means to think, and obeys the elf's command.

"And take more care with it, sutures are hard to come by," he adds as he swings a leg over Dorian's waist, reaching back to steady his cock yet again, "and that took many, and my brother does good work."

For his last statement Leitos' voice is tighter as Dorian sinks into his body, slow as he can make it. The mage groans a little, reaching up to run a hand along the elf's flank, then up his ribs to circle a nipple with his thumb.

"Please don't mention your family while I'm fucking you," Dorian pleads as his hips roll up quite honestly of his own accord. Leitos' breath hitches, but then he laughs, flattening long-fingered hands on the man's chest.

" _Ma nuvenin_." Dorian recognizes that, and figures it must be an agreement.

This time, it is Leitos who has control of the pace, and though it is obvious he wants to make it slow, he can't seem to manage it, pushing up on his knees, and sinking down again rapidly enough that it makes Dorian suck in a harsh breath. Because Maker he does it well, moves well and all of it is fluid, graceful, too pretty for his own good. He might be saying that out loud, because Leitos smiles down at him, and leans over till they can kiss. It's good, less a kiss than Leitos moaning into Dorian's mouth, sucking at his lips. The position gives Dorian the leverage to thrust up, fuck into Leitos' body at the pace they both need.

That gets Leitos to a point so quickly that Dorian slows to let him control the pace again, lets him work for his own release because the mage knows his will follow soon after. Leitos seems to pick up on this, and, when he has pushed himself up with his hands pressed into Dorian's chest, starts a brutal pace. Each time their skin meets with a too-loud slap it jolts a cry from the elf, but an ecstatic one, and there is a smile close on the edges of his lips. Dorian too, can't keep himself quiet, and though he's never been a terribly noisy lover, his breaths do turn into moans here and there, and it's impossible not to tell Leitos how beautiful he looks fucking himself on Dorian's cock.

Before anything else tips him off that the elf is close to his climax, Dorian begins to feel the air around them shift. It goes impossibly silent, the crackle of the fire, the quiet sounds of the night, the lute strumming from far off--he's suddenly deaf to all of it. Leitos, and the sound of their sex is still clear, but around them...magic, he figures, but he isn't sure what sort or how it will manifests. It very nearly distracts him from the pleasure building in his groin, but only just.

Then come the whispers, as Leitos lets his head fall back, and a hand goes to his cock. Dorian quickly swats it away, eager to please his lover. But noise rises, a thousand and one voices filling the close air, breathing sensual things in tongues he doesn't understand, but _feels_. It's incredible, and as his hand works Leitos again, Dorian feels his pleasure crest. When Leitos comes, he grinds himself down hard onto Dorian's cock, his release pulsing lazily onto the mage's stomach. Oh and then, Void take him, it's all too much; the sound, _Maker what is it who are they_ , the feeling of Leitos' muscles squeezing, spasming around him, it pushes Dorian over, into black, and bliss.

"Dorian," Leitos is asking quietly, looming over him when Dorian returns. Moments, only, but gods what moments they were. There's warm fingers on his cheek.

"Yes, _amatus_ ," he says again, lies, and smirks sleepily as Leitos makes a noise. The elf's lips are on his, tip of his tongue flitting out just to taste, but the kiss stays sleepy, lazy, in the post sex-haze that hangs around them.

It makes Dorian very aware that the noises returned, and that someone, Maker, someone is _still_ playing their little string instrument. Inhaling deeply and withdrawing from the kiss, Dorian starts to stretch, only stopping when Leitos makes to move off of him. They share a wince when he falls, soft, from the elf's body, but then they're free to move about as they like. As Dorian stretches on the bed like a lazy cat, Leitos goes to what appears to be a wash basin to clean himself up. It gives the mage time go get comfortable, before Leitos returns to him with a clean cloth soaked with water that's just a little too cold to clean him up. He's fastidious with his task, something Dorian can see mirrored in the works that line the opposite wall of his tent.

"You're half a healer, little craftsman," Dorian tells him, voice incredibly fond, soft. Leitos smiles.

"Every Dalish that spends any amount of time in slave trains becomes half a healer," he says as he moves to start unwrapping Dorian's bloodied bandage. He presses his lips together and nods, sitting up to give his caretaker a better angle. Leitos thanks him quietly.

"Usually I'm fit to fall asleep after even a bad romp," Dorian says quietly, watching Leitos' face carefully. His hair, mussed as it is, looks beautiful draped over one shoulder to keep it out of his way, and though the fire in the brazier has started to burn low, the light still caught the warmth in his skin as it glistened with sweat. The vallaslin wasn't quite black, but a bit of blue, and run through with a faint scar here or there. Dorian felt very suddenly the urge to protect, to set House Amladaris to such a blaze so that even their ancestors wore the blisters.

"Mm, well, I usually don't have a man threatening to bleed all over my bedclothes," Leitos says with a slight grin, as he presses the cloth to Dorian's skin to absorb some of the blood. It's all but stopped now, clotting around his stitches and around the wound. The elf cleans Dorian up just as much as he could, before standing again to find something that will serve as clean bandages. Dorian watches all the while, marveling at Leitos' form. He feels hapless, for some reason, and terribly, _horribly_ infatuated with this elf. Maker help him.

Leitos does not return presently with the bandages, instead tying some sort of cloth around his waist before he leaves the tent for a few moments, and when he returns, it is with a little bundle of branches. He feeds the brazier, coaxing the flame to life again, then sits with Dorian once more to dress his wound.

"Would that I had met you before," he murmurs, though his tone is quite plain. Leitos frowns as he wraps the cloth about the man's forearm.

"Why? I was much angrier then." There's something nostalgic in his chuckle, and the expression he wears, but Dorian is glad for that.

"And rightly so," the mage says, "I simply - "

_Wish we had done this sooner when you were still around and still a slave? More convenient?_ Dorian chastises himself.

"Perhaps I could have helped you sooner. Perhaps I could have left _with_ you," he tells Leitos, cocking a lopsided smile. The elf ties off the bandage and wipes his hands on the makeshift tunic he wears about his waist, before he stretches his long body back into his luxurious pillows.

"You would have liked to eloped with me, Dorian?" He grins, all pretty white teeth against his dark skin.

Dorian reclines as well, next to his lover for the evening, resting his head on a sinewy shoulder. He scoffs a laugh, at the absurd thought.

"While I can't say I wouldn't have liked to be your lover earlier, I also cannot say you could have stomached me back then either," he explains as he crosses his ankles and looks at the sloping ceiling of the tent. "I was quite... Well, young."

"I would have said flamboyant, but that doesn't seem to be something you've shed," Leitos says with a laugh, which Dorian echoes.

"No that's simply changed," he says, closing his eyes, because he really is tired, now that he's sated, comfortable. "I was naïve."

For a while, Leitos simply breathes deep, and Dorian nearly thinks he's fallen asleep until he cracks an eye open, and finds the elf looking at him.

"That can often be said about the young," Leitos replies, tone laden with understanding, though Dorian knows he truly can't understand, unless he knew the whole story, about the young men, the wine, his blighted father, those letters that weren't well hidden enough.

"Mm," Dorian hums as he closes his eyes again, and shifts into his side to sling an arm about Leitos' stomach. "Anyhow, you get my point."

"I suppose I do, yes." The elf is humoring him, of course, but that's enough for Dorian.

 

For the moment.

 

He's just about to drift off to sleep when he thinks of something else.

 

"What were those voices?" He asks quietly, and Lentos twitches, clearly half asleep and spooked out of it when Dorian spoke. Inhaling deeply, the elf yawns. 

 

"I um..." he huffs a laugh, "perhaps got a bit...carried away, I don't mean to, or, didn't mean to, it just so to happens, from time to time when I'm not terribly careful." There's something bashful about the way he stumbles over his explanation. Dorian turns over, and pushes up on an elbow to look Leitos in the face.

 

"So your magic," he surmises, "you let it go a bit when you come." 

 

Leitos snorts and turns his head away. Theres a quick, crimson blush that colors his cheeks. 

 

"No, not- not always, or ever really I just - "

 

Dorian smirks.

 

"That good, mm?"

 

Leitos reaches over and flicks the man square on the forehead.

 

"Ouch! What was that for, you know I'm right," he mutters, but smiles as he walks his fingers up the elf's chest, "made you lose a little control, did I? Summoned a few spirits as witness?"

 

"You're ridiculous," is all the elf says as he shakes his head where it's pillowed on his arm, and Dorian grins. 

**  
**  


-

**  
**  


Leitos wakes before Dorian, before the dawn.

His fire is dead, but under the furs and silks, skin on skin he's plenty warm. Next to him, Dorian is buried in the coverlets pulled nearly up to his ears, and in a deep slumber. As he wakes fully, Leitos simply looks at the man, takes in his utterly disheveled hair and mustache, the creases the blankets had left in his cheek. He seems as most people do when they sleep, unburdened by whatever haunts them in the conscious world, but what exactly that is, has Leitos curious. He could see it on Dorian's face when they spoke of Tevinter, a certain bitterness that followed his words. Leitos thought to ask, but figured it was prudent to let Dorian explain on his own, if he ever wanted to.

Inhaling deeply, the elf turns himself in bed, loathe to get up, but his stomach growls. The rest of the camp will be waking up as well, so Leitos all but rolls from his makeshift bed to the floor to stoke the fire in the brazier to life again. When he stands, he finds himself a little sore in places that he quite likes, and he grins to himself as he pulls on a cloak, then leaves the tent.

The morning is misty, cool, and quiet. Some of the night fires are still burning in the fog of the morning, but the ones who tended them are probably still in bed. Leitos circles to the back of his tent to feed Dorian's pony some dried grass and root vegetables, doing the same for a few halla that wander to his tent now in the mornings, expecting to be fed. They butt their heads against his arms until he hands each a carrot or two, and Leitos chuckles at them as he rubs their velvety noses. He entrusts Dorian's pony to them, let's her wander with the few to the river to graze and drink.

Inside the tent once more, he dresses properly and pleats and ties back his hair before he gathers up Dorian's clothing. Seeing that his bedmate is still sleeping soundly, Leitos slips outside once more, making his way to Hamon's home tent, that he shares with his wife Daara and their three children. They're all awake now, their youngest, only a few months old, attached to her breast as the other two cling to her skirts sleepily. Though she is no washerwoman, Daara knows how to get blood out of all sorts of fabric, fine or homespun, so Leitos asks her for whatever it is she uses. She gives him a rough chunk of what he assumes is a sort of soap with a disapproving look. That he's acting as a slave for some Tevinter again, but Leitos always likes having something to do with his hands.

He washes the mage's cloak, tunic, and trousers in the cold river water until his fingertips are blue and the blood is all but gone from the fabric. After he beats them out, he returns to let them dry near the warm brazier, where he warms his hands as well, and debates crawling back into bed with Dorian. When Leita pushes back his tent flap, Leitos is about to stand and undress, but apparently the Creators had different plans for him that day. She smirks at him and nods her head back toward the camp.

"Breakfast is nearly ready," she tells him, but keeps quiet for her brother's guest. Leitos nods and stands, unsure if he should wake Dorian--and then decides against it when the mage sighs deeply, lips moving around sleepy, silent nothings.

Outside, Leita's lover and companion for the last decade, Serisa, is waiting for them, yawning and leaning on the spear she seems to carry everywhere. When she sees Leitos, however, she grins. No doubt Leita had told her Leitos went to bed with his guest, eventually. Serisa cuffs his shoulder, and they all walk off to have their morning meal, sharing a laugh.

The three of them break their fast with Letios and Leita's cousin, Farica, on warm oats with cream, and honey. They sit around the small cookfire, banked now that the sun was rising, and discuss what needs to be done through-ought the day as the others trickled in to get their meal. When Hamon arrives with his little family, the last to do so, they bring Dorian with them. Shialya, their middle girl, of five years, holds the man's hand as she leads them to the group and talking up a storm as she always does. Leitos thinks it's because her parents are silent and quiet, respectively. Dorian seems to be taking it quite well, looking incredibly interested in whatever it is Shialya is on about now--which turns out to be Leitos.

He fixes a serving for Dorian, and returns to sit and wait, watching the little one lead him along.

"-quite jealous. You'll ask him to make one for me, won't you?" Dorian asks Shialya, who nods diplomatically and looks to her uncle.

" _Letha'lin_ , your _shemlen_ wants a bow like mine," she says to Leitos after she lets Dorian's hand go, and comes up to speak to him quietly. Dorian barks a laugh at 'your shemlen', "but it can't be just like mine." She whispers the last bit to him, and Leitos laughs, pulling at where the bow string is holding the tiny weapon in question to her body.

"Agreed, _ma da'len_. Remember what I told you, wearing it like that may break the bow and wear out the string," he tells her, hooking a finger into the string and pulling it a bit. She nods in understanding, short brown curls bouncing, and as she goes off to meet up with the rest of her family, she pulls it delicately from around her body.

Dorian takes his seat next to Leitos, as he had last night at dinner, and the elf pushes the bowl into his hands.

"Ah - thank you," he says with a sigh, holding the bowl with one hand and rubbing his face with the other.

"Did she wake you?" Leitos asks as he scrapes his own bowl of the last dregs of oats.

"No," Dorian chuckles, "your brother came to check on my arm, though I think that was simply a rouse to see if I was still in your tent." Leitos nods, laughing as well because it was probably true; Hamon always did look after him and Leita a little more when they returned home.

"Quite the family he has," Dorian adds wistfully as they look on at Hamon, Daara and their children.

"Shialya takes after her mother, and perhaps from me," Leitos says, "the infant is Fenvel, and the oldest boy is Sorrian, probably a healer like his father. Quiet like him, too."

Dorian nods his understanding as he takes a spoonful of his breakfast.

"How are you feeling?" The elf asks, leaning his weight back onto his palms as he watches the mage.

"Quite well," Dorian gives him a wicked little grin, "very rested, for one. Grateful for all of your Dalish _hospitality_."

Leitos beams, all silly delight and a sense of accomplishment. "I'm glad we've made you feel welcome."

"That's a word for it," Dorian chuckles again as he takes another bite of his oats, "I was wondering, however, how long you all have been here, or intend to stay. I've never seen a Dalish camp quite so organized and extensive."

The elf considers, pursing his lips.

"We've been here about....well, nearing a month. After we crossed the Frostbacks, a rest was needed for us and the animals, so now that that's accomplished, we'll be moving on soon." The thought almost saddened him; how would Dorian find him again? Couldn't he just forsake literally everything else in his life to indulge Leitos for just a little longer?

"Any place in particular?"

"The Conclave, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, apparently." Leitos isn't terribly pleased that he's the one who was elected to go, specifically, but such is the way of things.

"Truly? What interest does your clan have with the Templars and mages?" Dorian asks, half turning his body to face Leitos.

"Well, other than being a mage myself," the elf starts with a shrug, "sometimes, things that affect the world of flat-ears affects us all. And we like to be in the know, just in case you bring the world down upon our heads."

" _You_ , excuse me," Dorian grouses, though it's playful.

"And you? Where do you go from here?" Leitos asks simply because perhaps...perhaps Falon'din will intervene once more to bring them together.

"I thought I told - oh, I told your mother, or sister or someone yesterday," he waves a dismissive hand, "I'm on my way to Redcliffe, to visit the man who was once my mentor. I am close to his son, as well, who is ill so it's. Time for a visit." His smile is a bit tense, and Leitos frowns, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Shall I send you off with something? I'm sure whatever ails him, Hamon has something for it."

Dorian's smile then, turns sad.

"His father is a magister, they've tried near everything under the sun. He's still quite healthy, and gets about, so I imagine he'll be well for quite some time."

Leitos touches the back of Dorian's hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. The mage moves it, and plays with Leitos' fingers.

"I'm terribly sorry for you," he says, watching Dorian's face, "perhaps after the Conclave, I can find my way to Redcliffe."

This makes the man smile, a simple, happy thing.

"Perhaps."

**  
**


End file.
